Never too old to appreciate good dance moves

While for most people it was time to “get ready for some football,” this past Sunday my niece and daughter and GMa and I decided to huddle up on the sectional in our jammies and watch chick flicks. Scrolling through selections of newly available on demand movies we picked Magic Mike XXL.

Mom and Mindy smiling at Magic Mike.

Rhiannon left the room with a groan but was caught sneaking down the stairs to peek when ever Hana and I were screeching with delight.

Meanwhile mom was clapping and singing random, nonsensical lyrics to the beat mocking the half naked rapper with six-pack abs.

It was a perfect moment in our lives lived moment to moment with mom.

I miss her, the mom who loved and nurtured me, who encouraged me, who believed in me. She was a dedicated mom who never said no to any of her children in need. She was a role model for social justice and political advocacy who taught me that caring, whether for an orphaned baby squirrel, a homeless person, or her own mother and son in their dying days was not a burden but a responsibility.

Mom was brilliant in so many ways and I’m sure knew what was happening to her long before we did; weekly games of scrabble and contract bridge at the senior center were her desperate attempt to exercise her brain and stave off the inevitable. The hardest part of witnessing the toll of this illness was seeing mom endure the personal heartbreak of experiencing the loss of her cognitive ability. She had a hard time joining a foursome at bridge games and her scrabble buddy completely stopped coming. She told me she wanted to go to sleep and never wake up.

But then one day she did wake up in another place in time and much to our delight she brought us along. For months we went through a period of learning about her childhood days with her brother and sisters in New Bedford. We even met her high school sweetheart vicariously through mom's time warp.

Then there were the songs, sung out of tune but lyrics as crisp as they were written yesterday. I started Googling the words and discovered a whole new era of music that taught me that a “flat foot floosie” was a hooker and the “foy, foy” was slang for venereal disease. Who knew?

These days she talks far less. She knows far fewer people who come through the door. Casually she asks, “Who is back at your house?” hoping the answers will give her a clue to the familiar face. She repeats the same verse every night before bed, “Good night. Sleep tight. Don’t let the bed bugs bite.”

When I see her old friends they ask of her and many are surprised she still lives at home. Quite honestly I wouldn’t have it any other way. Sure there are lots of assisted living and nursing home facilities dedicated to elderly patients with dementia but even if she did go to one I would still have to be there every day to make sure she was getting the same care I would giver her. Family and friends that come here would have to go to a sterile facility to visit her where I’m sure having a slick bodied Michael Strahan wearing nothing but a thong and dancing through a shower of dollar bills in high definition on the big screen would not be allowed.

So while there are things I certainly miss about the old mom, I count myself among the most fortunate to have her home and to have such a supportive group of family and friends who pitch in when needed. It makes me a little sad when she knows the dog is Mindy but doesn’t remember my name, but mom still experiences occasions of pure joy like when the cat who is miserable to everyone else in the house curls up on her lap and purrs. She laughs spontaneously at things unexplained and mysterious, and sings out of tune.

This mom has her moments.

Cultural Lives Matter

By no means to detract from all that “matters” in this ever increasing land of indifference, recent events compel me to make another obvious declaration: culture matters. It matters if it’s appropriated, it matters if it’s mocked, it matters if it’s used to threaten or intimidate.

As Native Americans we endure regular acts of cultural degradation from children dressed up for Halloween in outfits that are a reflection of our traditional regalia to team mascots and sports fans wearing feathers and face paint mocking ancient spiritual rites and tradition. The concert of voices in opposition to these racist practices is growing but ignorance is stubborn and shame has a hard time penetrating monomaniac sports enthusiasts.

Brown Alum Jennifer Weston and Mashpee Wampanoag Hartman Deetz
stand by as Tall Oak Weeden makes remarks at Brown University where more
than 300 protestors gathered for Indigenous Peoples' Day.

That said, I honestly thought the undeniable scholarly evidence of atrocities committed by Christopher Columbus would more easily rectify the national holiday celebrated in his name. The primary source references to his crimes against humanity resulting in the genocide of millions of Arawak would earn him a special spot in hell right next to Hitler. In recent years a multi-racial movement to rename the holiday Indigenous Peoples’ Day has been embraced by numerous cities and colleges and universities across the country.

But this year at two Ivy League schools the reactions of some students one might expect to be among the best and the brightest this country has to offer quite honestly shocked me.

At Brown University in Providence, Rhode Island a non-Native student’s column in the Brown Daily Herald suggesting that Native people embrace Columbus Day not for the man but for the resulting “Columbian Exchange” drew hundreds to the campus green for a peaceful but vocal protest. The student group, Native Americans at Brown, gathered more than 1000 signatures on a petition to rename the holiday next year. I hope they are successful.

A few hundred miles north at Dartmouth College in Hanover, New Hampshire Native Students staged a protest on the second Monday in October choosing to recognize Indigenous Peoples’ Day instead.  What they endured from an anonymous and cowardly hate group was disgraceful.

Dartmouth Students observing Indigenous Peoples' Day.
Photo by Kohar Avakian

Native students found the campus papered with flyers promoting an online marketing campaign to celebrate Indigenous Peoples’ Day by raising the ghost of the  “Dartmouth Indian” logo on swag from T-shirts to thongs. The offensive Dartmouth Indian has been banned for more than 40 years.

This was far more than sophomoric prank. It does more than offend; it threatens and degrades Native students at Dartmouth who deserve to feel safe and respected. Just imagine how Dartmouth’s African American students would react to a black lawn jockey on the green. The anonymity and pervasiveness of the act left Native students feeling like burglary victims, violated and defenseless, like someone stepped into their hearts in the dark of night and took a piece of their pride to be exploited.

Dartmouth student making a statement.
Photo by Kohar Avakian

To knowingly dishonor these students suggests a deeper disregard for their heritage and perhaps a more open expression of what many Native students experience on a daily basis; resentment.

Do full-pay and legacy students begrudge the mission of the school established in 1769 to educate Native Americans? Can they actually be that blind to the social inequity that defines their generation?

In 1970 a new college president, John Kemeny, kicked open the doors of Dartmouth to Native students establishing an aggressive recruitment campaign to honor the school’s original charter that had been virtually ignored for 200 years. Since then Dartmouth counts more than 700 Native students among graduates, more than all other Ivy League schools combined. Decades before diversity initiatives became the norm and far ahead of the cultural sensitivity curve Kemeny also abandoned the unofficial Dartmouth Indian logo, the face of an angry and hostile looking Native man. While he was at it, Kemeny also spearheaded a change in the

Photo by Kohar Avakian

admissions policy to allow women to attend Dartmouth.

Sadly the only students more threatened than Native Americans at Dartmouth today are Native American women.

I hope they stay strong in their convictions and endure. An ironic benefit of exposure to this elite brand of education is to bear witness to what can be the heartlessness of privilege and rise above it.

Many of Dartmouth's graduates return to tribal communities and reservations where they become role models for the next generation and their education and experience help to build a bridge out of poverty. 

Native Americans at Brown and supporters gather on the Brown University
green to observe Indigenous Peoples' Day.
Photo by Danielle Perelman

Here I am. Where'd I go?

Every time I think I'm going to make a serious commitment to contribute to this blog more regularly something comes up. I let it slide and then I take a look back and can see it's been months since I last posted anything. In my own defense, it was a busy summer and I did get a lot of other things done.

Mom and me at the Aquinnah Powwow

First there was family in abundance. I am so blessed with such a large and loyal extended family who all like to gather at my home or around my fire pit. They are vital to my mother and her on going journey into her elder years. She will be 94 in January and while her memory is failing she has retained a diverse kit of tools to fend off dementia. She reads and studies photos constantly. When a visitor comes she becomes a stealth detective with questions like, "who is back at your house?" and "where do you live now?" The answers provide her clues to the visitor's identity and even if she never guesses who they are she has started a good conversation.

Best of all mom travels well. If there was some place to go or someone to see we were there. From volley ball, to dancing at Dino's on the deck, to the powwow on Martha's Vineyard she was always ready to rock and roll.

Much of the summer was spent gathering interviews and photos and stories about the raid on the Mashpee Nine in 1976. I had the pleasure of working with my intrepid intern Douglas Pocknett Jr. who became a fan of my cooking while helping me to navigate social media.

Summer became fall all too quickly along with a fast deadline to complete the next theme of the "Our"Story: 400 Years of Wampanoag History exhibit. I knew Captured 1614 would be a tough act to follow but having just viewed the video for the Messenger Runner starring Weeden cousins Attaquin and Brian, I have a feeling no one will be disappointed.

Now that I can refocus my attention on the Mashpee Nine documentary I have a new production assistant on board to help keep the project on track. Tribal member Talia Landry will be a welcome addition to the crew and just in time for us to be invited to present at the Indigenous Coast to Coast Film Festival at UNH next month. Whew!

So stay tuned. The "Our"Story exhibit new theme will debut on November 12 at the Mashpee Wampanoag Tribal Government Center while Mashpee Nine: The Beat Goes on is due to premier in time for out 2016 Mashpee Wampanoag Powwow.

Meanwhile, I will try to stay in touch.